


Surviving

by HumanError



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Car Accidents, Death, Depression, Drug Use, Drugs, Drunk Driving, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, POV Sherlock Holmes, Poor Sherlock, Sherlock-centric, Suicide Attempt, Teenlock, collision, teen death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 02:09:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3632661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HumanError/pseuds/HumanError
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John did not have the chance to drive. But the person who murdered him did and he took advantage of that, thinking it was a fantastic idea to drive whilst under the influence. He was walking to my house and out of nowhere, the vehicle had veered onto the pavement, colliding with him and sending him flying. The impact had shattered various vertebrae in his spine, caused major internal bleeding and extremely severe head damage. It was unlikely that he was going to wake from the coma that he had succumbed to, but we hoped that he would.</p><p>It was ridiculous to hold out hope for him because how could someone survive something like that? His body was crushed by that car, he should have died on impact. Yet he didn't and he managed to live for another three days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surviving

The school holds a memorial service for him two days after they are made aware of his passing. They are made aware exactly one week after his death. Up until that point they had the knowledge that he was in the hospital with life threatening injuries and was very unlikely to return back to school, ever.

Before they found out that he had died, our classmates made him cards, wishing him the best of luck in his recovery. Our teacher gave me the cards to give to him.

* * *

 I never got round to giving them to his parents because one minute he was alive, he was breathing (albeit with a lot of help) but it gave me comfort knowing that he was at least _surviving._

Then suddenly he wasn't. 

* * *

I was sitting beside him and holding his hand, caressing my thumb over his skin. Mrs Watson was beside me and holding onto my other hand, doing exactly the same to me as I was to him. And just like that, the calmness of the situation was disrupted and machines were beeping, his entire body was convulsing and I was being dragged out by a nurse, being told that I shouldn't watch what was happening to him and they needed the space.

***

The door to the ICU is slammed shut and the two of us are left outside in the corridor, wondering what the hell is going on. Stupidly I don't think of the possibilities of what could happen because _this is John Watson and he is a survivor._

Mr Watson arrives out of nowhere, two coffees in his hand until they're not in his hand and there's a puddle of hot liquid pooling around his feet, covering his worn shoes.

I am confused, absolutely terrified as I am suddenly very much aware of exactly what could happen. What will probably happened. 

There is another family in the corridor, staring at us, looks of sympathy and pity plastering their faces. John's father is embracing Mrs Watson, quietly whispering words of comfort but I am able to tell in an instant that he doesn't believe what he is saying. His bottom lip is quivering and we make eye contact and I know, I just  _know_  that I am never going to see John again, hear his voice, look at him smile.

Before I realise what I am doing, I am running, getting away from his mum and dad, away from the ICU. I find myself in the nearest toilet and I am throwing up, lurching over the side of it and heaving and heaving and heaving. The feeling is... it's like nothing I've ever felt before. A mixture of grief, despair, anxiety. They're attacking me with as much force as they can throw at me and it is awful, absolutely horrifying and I feel like everything I have ever known and built is collapsing around me, bringing me down with it.

* * *

The day that the school holds the service, we are all allowed to light a candle in his memory. There is a photo of him that is mounted at the front of the hall and he is smiling, eyes bright and he looks genuinely happy.

It was taken three weeks before his passing, on his seventeenth birthday. Greg, Mike and I held a 'party' for him. It was just the four of us and we spent the night in a tent beside the lake, a campfire roaring as we drank and listened to his favourite music. John absolutely adored it.

I had to leave halfway through the memorial when Mike stood up, reminiscing on the memories he and John had together. Then he started talking about me and how happy I made John and I lost it, completely and utterly lost it. Similar to how I was at the hospital, I was inclined to get away from people and shoved my way past classmates who were staring at me, tears in their eyes and tissues in their hands. I noticed my English teacher standing up, ready to come after me but soon Greg was there, telling her not to follow me. She didn't.

* * *

I return half an hour later, back to the ICU and Mr and Mrs Watson are not there. Instead there is a nurse- the same one who ushered me out of the room in the first place, the same one who forced me to be away from John. When she looks at me I know what she's saying.  _I'm so sorry. We couldn't save him._

And I want to scream. Scream at the top of my lungs to anyone who will listen to me because  _this isn't meant to fucking happen._ John is meant to be in that hospital room surviving, not by himself in a cold mortuary waiting for a post mortem to take place to determine how he died because it sure as hell isn't going to do anything to bring him back from the bloody dead.

The nurse, who has only been working in the hospital for the past couple of weeks, clearly hasn't dealt with a situation like this before and I can tell that she is uncertain about what she is supposed to say or do. 

"His parents." I manage, my mouth dry. My voice cracks slightly and I turn my head away, willing her not to see me. She doesn't say anything, just puts her hand on my shoulder and guides me to the room where they are sat together on a sofa, faces red and blotchy from where they have been crying. They both look up to me when I walk in the room and immediately Mrs Watson's eyes fill with tears again and she is standing up, wrapping her arms around me in an embrace that leads me to believe that I am about to be suffocated.

I don't care.

John's father comes over too and the three of us stand together like that, wrapped in each other's arms. It must have been about three minutes before Mr Watson speaks, saying to me, "he was so grateful for you, Sherlock."

I am unable to reply, too afraid of my voice breaking, and I just nod as I hug the two of them tighter.

* * *

 

For some reason the school thought that with John's passing, it would be a great idea to raise awareness of drink driving, despite only presenting an assembly on it a couple of months ago. I could tell that my classmates didn't want to do it, it was too soon, but the teachers protested and therefore we had some idiotic actors come in and do their stupid presentation.

John did not have the chance to drive. But the person who murdered him did and he took advantage of that, thinking it was a fantastic idea to drive whilst under the influence. He was walking to my house and out of nowhere, the vehicle had veered onto the pavement, colliding with him and sending him flying. The impact had shattered various vertebrae in his spine, caused major internal bleeding and extremely severe head damage. It was unlikely that he was going to wake from the coma that he had succumbed to, but we hoped that he would.

It was ridiculous to hold out hope for him because how could someone survive something like that? His body was crushed by that car, he should have died on impact. Yet he didn't and he managed to live for another three days.

I shouldn't have had to find out that John was injured before his parents found out, but I did. At the scene, paramedics discovered his wallet and there was a picture of us two in it. On the back was my mobile number which I gave to him the first night we went out on a date together. As his phone was destroyed in the collision and that was the only number accessible, I was called. They didn't tell me the extent of his injuries or how severe they were, just that I needed to contact his parents and get to the hospital if possible.

I was out of the front door immediately. It's funny how when you are faced with a situation like that, you don't think directly about what is happening. Stupid things that have no meaning or relation to what you're doing at that minute race through your mind.

***

After he died, I found it hard to cope. The motivation to continue onwards just stopped and I spiralled downhill, finding new distractions, not focussing on myself. Not that I did that much before he died, but he helped. John helped me so much, although I was reluctant to admit it.

The atmosphere at school changed completely and it was hateful. The way people looked at me as if I may break made me so angry. And I did get angry. So bloody angry at the most ridiculous little things until one day, I flipped out completely in the chemistry lab.

Some girls who I couldn't be bothered to remember the names of started talking about John, about how they thought he was such a great person, how he would never hurt anyone. But every time they mentioned John's name, I could feel my temper slowly rising because why should they be allowed to talk about John when they didn't bother when he was alive?

 I clenched my jaw as I turned to face them. They looked at me with confusion when I told them to shut up.

"Excuse me?" One of them asked, clearly annoyed that I was disturbing their conversation.

"I said shut up. Do you understand how to do that?"

"We were speaking about John..."

"Exactly. Shut up." My knuckles began to hurt from where I had balled my fist together, willing myself not to punch something- or someone.

"I'm not sure I understand why-" The girl who was leading the conversation started to get defensive as she pulled her shoulders back, looking me directly in the eyes. I cut her off before she could finish her sentence.

"No, you don't understand. You have never shown any interest or concern about John before, and now that he's dead you feel the need to have to speak about him like he was your bloody best friend. You have never fucking cared for him so stop pretending like you did just because you've fancied him for the past year and a half. He didn't care about you, you knew nothing about him so just stop fucking acting like you knew him! You didn't, none of you did!" Somehow I had managed to stand up and I was shouting at them, cursing.

Mr Reign, our chemistry teacher, was up in an instant, holding my arms back to try and restrain me. Greg was there too, shoving his hands against my shoulders and speaking to me but what he said went in one ear and out through the other. I wanted to hurt someone, harm them because the pain was just getting too much, too overwhelming. Why couldn't people just think.

It wasn't until I felt a hand slap to my face and Greg shouting my name did I stop my rant. I glanced my eyes downwards, looking Greg in the face. "Sherlock," he said, a stern tone to his words that I had not heard before. "Stop it. John wouldn't want this."

Glaring at him, I yanked myself away from his grip and grabbed my bag, slamming the door to the classroom as I left, giving everyone the middle finger as I went.

I didn't return back to school for another four days, instead finding myself in the relief of cocaine and highs. It was fantastic.

***

I don't regret it. I never will. Because finding those drugs, losing myself to the effects of them, allows me to get through it. There were days that I could just forget everything, forget John, forget the accident, forget his passing. There are still days that I find myself in those hazes, lost to the world, to everyone around me. They've tried to help but without success. Mycroft, Greg, Mike, teachers, all of them. But it doesn't work.

When I find myself in hospital, machines connected to me to keep me alive, I'm not scared. I'm not afraid. I've overdosed, sometimes intentionally, sometimes unintentionally, but I've managed to survive through it. I've got used to the idea of having my stomach pumped. And it's ridiculous because the only time I get to escape my reality, is when I risk my life.

And I've found that I'm past caring. There may come a day when I finally accept what happened to him, when I stop doing things that are not only damaging me but hurting the ones around me but I don't see the hope. I lost hope when I lost him.

I don't think that I will survive.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
